Chapter XXIII

Charles Dickens

Credits

George P. Landow created the Great Expectations Project as an experiment collaborative scholarship and learning with web-based texts that link together (1) the text of he novel, (2) previously publishd scholarly texts, encluding entire books, (3) illustrations, and (4) contemporary reviews, and (5) student-created annotations that take various forms, including essays, reading and discussion questions. This web version of the novel derives from the Project Gutenberg EBook version of the 1867 edition [EBook #1400], that “An Anonymous Volunteer” and David Widger created. Using much of their html, Landow reformatted and linked the text.

Mr. Pocket said he was glad to see me, and he hoped I was not sorry to
see him. “For, I really am not,” he added, with his son’s smile,
"an alarming personage.” He was a young-looking man, in spite of
his perplexities and his very gray hair, and his manner seemed quite
natural. I use the word natural, in the sense of its being unaffected;
there was something comic in his distraught way, as though it would have
been downright ludicrous but for his own perception that it was very
near being so. When he had talked with me a little, he said to Mrs.
Pocket, with a rather anxious contraction of his eyebrows, which were
black and handsome, “Belinda, I hope you have welcomed Mr. Pip?” And she
looked up from her book, and said, “Yes.” She then smiled upon me in an
absent state of mind, and asked me if I liked the taste of orange-flower
water? As the question had no bearing, near or remote, on any foregone
or subsequent transaction, I consider it to have been thrown out, like
her previous approaches, in general conversational condescension.

I found out within a few hours, and may mention at once, that Mrs.
Pocket was the only daughter of a certain quite accidental deceased
Knight, who had invented for himself a conviction that his deceased
father would have been made a Baronet but for somebody’s determined
opposition arising out of entirely personal motives,—I forget whose,
if I ever knew,—the Sovereign’s , the Prime Minister’s , the Lord
Chancellor’s , the Archbishop of Canterbury’s , anybody’s ,—and had
tacked himself on to the nobles of the earth in right of this quite
supposititious fact. I believe he had been knighted himself for storming
the English grammar at the point of the pen, in a desperate address
engrossed on vellum, on the occasion of the laying of the first stone of
some building or other, and for handing some Royal Personage either the
trowel or the mortar. Be that as it may, he had directed Mrs. Pocket to
be brought up from her cradle as one who in the nature of things
must marry a title, and who was to be guarded from the acquisition of
plebeian domestic knowledge.

So successful a watch and ward had been established over the young lady
by this judicious parent, that she had grown up highly ornamental, but
perfectly helpless and useless. With her character thus happily formed,
in the first bloom of her youth she had encountered Mr. Pocket: who was
also in the first bloom of youth, and not quite decided whether to mount
to the Woolsack, or to roof himself in with a mitre. As his doing the
one or the other was a mere question of time, he and Mrs. Pocket had
taken Time by the forelock (when, to judge from its length, it would
seem to have wanted cutting), and had married without the knowledge of
the judicious parent. The judicious parent, having nothing to bestow or
withhold but his blessing, had handsomely settled that dower upon them
after a short struggle, and had informed Mr. Pocket that his wife was “a
treasure for a Prince.” Mr. Pocket had invested the Prince’s treasure
in the ways of the world ever since, and it was supposed to have brought
him in but indifferent interest. Still, Mrs. Pocket was in general the
object of a queer sort of respectful pity, because she had not married
a title; while Mr. Pocket was the object of a queer sort of forgiving
reproach, because he had never got one.

Mr. Pocket took me into the house and showed me my room: which was a
pleasant one, and so furnished as that I could use it with comfort for
my own private sitting-room. He then knocked at the doors of two other
similar rooms, and introduced me to their occupants, by name Drummle
and Startop. Drummle, an old-looking young man of a heavy order of
architecture, was whistling. Startop, younger in years and appearance,
was reading and holding his head, as if he thought himself in danger of
exploding it with too strong a charge of knowledge.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had such a noticeable air of being in somebody
else’s hands, that I wondered who really was in possession of the house
and let them live there, until I found this unknown power to be the
servants. It was a smooth way of going on, perhaps, in respect of saving
trouble; but it had the appearance of being expensive, for the servants
felt it a duty they owed to themselves to be nice in their eating and
drinking, and to keep a deal of company down stairs. They allowed a very
liberal table to Mr. and Mrs. Pocket, yet it always appeared to me that
by far the best part of the house to have boarded in would have been
the kitchen,—always supposing the boarder capable of self-defence, for,
before I had been there a week, a neighboring lady with whom the family
were personally unacquainted, wrote in to say that she had seen Millers
slapping the baby. This greatly distressed Mrs. Pocket, who burst into
tears on receiving the note, and said that it was an extraordinary thing
that the neighbors couldn’t mind their own business.

By degrees I learnt, and chiefly from Herbert, that Mr. Pocket had been
educated at Harrow and at Cambridge, where he had distinguished himself;
but that when he had had the happiness of marrying Mrs. Pocket very
early in life, he had impaired his prospects and taken up the calling
of a Grinder. After grinding a number of dull blades,—of whom it was
remarkable that their fathers, when influential, were always going to
help him to preferment, but always forgot to do it when the blades had
left the Grindstone,—he had wearied of that poor work and had come to
London. Here, after gradually failing in loftier hopes, he had “read"
with divers who had lacked opportunities or neglected them, and had
refurbished divers others for special occasions, and had turned his
acquirements to the account of literary compilation and correction,
and on such means, added to some very moderate private resources, still
maintained the house I saw.

Mr. and Mrs. Pocket had a toady neighbor; a widow lady of that highly
sympathetic nature that she agreed with everybody, blessed everybody,
and shed smiles and tears on everybody, according to circumstances. This
lady’s name was Mrs. Coiler, and I had the honor of taking her down to
dinner on the day of my installation. She gave me to understand on the
stairs, that it was a blow to dear Mrs. Pocket that dear Mr. Pocket
should be under the necessity of receiving gentlemen to read with him.
That did not extend to me, she told me in a gush of love and confidence
(at that time, I had known her something less than five minutes); if
they were all like Me, it would be quite another thing.

“But dear Mrs. Pocket,” said Mrs. Coiler, “after her early
disappointment (not that dear Mr. Pocket was to blame in that), requires
so much luxury and elegance—"

“Yes, ma'am,” I said, to stop her, for I was afraid she was going to
cry.

“And she is of so aristocratic a disposition—"

“Yes, ma'am,” I said again, with the same object as before.

“—That it is hard,” said Mrs. Coiler, “to have dear Mr. Pocket’s time
and attention diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket."

I could not help thinking that it might be harder if the butcher’s time
and attention were diverted from dear Mrs. Pocket; but I said nothing,
and indeed had enough to do in keeping a bashful watch upon my company
manners.

It came to my knowledge, through what passed between Mrs. Pocket and
Drummle while I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and
other instruments of self-destruction, that Drummle, whose Christian
name was Bentley, was actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy.
It further appeared that the book I had seen Mrs. Pocket reading in the
garden was all about titles, and that she knew the exact date at which
her grandpapa would have come into the book, if he ever had come at all.
Drummle didn’t say much, but in his limited way (he struck me as a sulky
kind of fellow) he spoke as one of the elect, and recognized Mrs. Pocket
as a woman and a sister. No one but themselves and Mrs. Coiler the toady
neighbor showed any interest in this part of the conversation, and it
appeared to me that it was painful to Herbert; but it promised to last
a long time, when the page came in with the announcement of a domestic
affliction. It was, in effect, that the cook had mislaid the beef. To my
unutterable amazement, I now, for the first time, saw Mr. Pocket
relieve his mind by going through a performance that struck me as very
extraordinary, but which made no impression on anybody else, and
with which I soon became as familiar as the rest. He laid down the
carving-knife and fork,—being engaged in carving, at the moment,—put
his two hands into his disturbed hair, and appeared to make an
extraordinary effort to lift himself up by it. When he had done this,
and had not lifted himself up at all, he quietly went on with what he
was about.

Mrs. Coiler then changed the subject and began to flatter me. I liked
it for a few moments, but she flattered me so very grossly that the
pleasure was soon over. She had a serpentine way of coming close at
me when she pretended to be vitally interested in the friends and
localities I had left, which was altogether snaky and fork-tongued; and
when she made an occasional bounce upon Startop (who said very little to
her), or upon Drummle (who said less), I rather envied them for being on
the opposite side of the table.

After dinner the children were introduced, and Mrs. Coiler made admiring
comments on their eyes, noses, and legs,—a sagacious way of improving
their minds. There were four little girls, and two little boys, besides
the baby who might have been either, and the baby’s next successor who
was as yet neither. They were brought in by Flopson and Millers, much as
though those two non-commissioned officers had been recruiting somewhere
for children and had enlisted these, while Mrs. Pocket looked at the
young Nobles that ought to have been as if she rather thought she had
had the pleasure of inspecting them before, but didn’t quite know what
to make of them.

“Here! Give me your fork, Mum, and take the baby,” said Flopson. “Don’t
take it that way, or you'll get its head under the table."

Thus advised, Mrs. Pocket took it the other way, and got its head
upon the table; which was announced to all present by a prodigious
concussion.

One of the little girls, a mere mite who seemed to have prematurely
taken upon herself some charge of the others, stepped out of her place
by me, and danced to and from the baby until it left off crying, and
laughed. Then, all the children laughed, and Mr. Pocket (who in the
meantime had twice endeavored to lift himself up by the hair) laughed,
and we all laughed and were glad.

Flopson, by dint of doubling the baby at the joints like a Dutch doll,
then got it safely into Mrs. Pocket’s lap, and gave it the nut-crackers
to play with; at the same time recommending Mrs. Pocket to take notice
that the handles of that instrument were not likely to agree with its
eyes, and sharply charging Miss Jane to look after the same. Then, the
two nurses left the room, and had a lively scuffle on the staircase with
a dissipated page who had waited at dinner, and who had clearly lost
half his buttons at the gaming-table.

I was made very uneasy in my mind by Mrs. Pocket’s falling into a
discussion with Drummle respecting two baronetcies, while she ate a
sliced orange steeped in sugar and wine, and, forgetting all about the
baby on her lap, who did most appalling things with the nut-crackers. At
length little Jane, perceiving its young brains to be imperilled, softly
left her place, and with many small artifices coaxed the dangerous
weapon away. Mrs. Pocket finishing her orange at about the same time,
and not approving of this, said to Jane,—

Mrs. Pocket’s dignity was so crushing, that I felt quite abashed, as if
I myself had done something to rouse it.

“Belinda,” remonstrated Mr. Pocket, from the other end of the table,
"how can you be so unreasonable? Jane only interfered for the protection
of baby."

“I will not allow anybody to interfere,” said Mrs. Pocket. “I am
surprised, Matthew, that you should expose me to the affront of
interference."

“Good God!” cried Mr. Pocket, in an outbreak of desolate desperation.
"Are infants to be nut-crackered into their tombs, and is nobody to save
them?"

“I will not be interfered with by Jane,” said Mrs. Pocket, with a
majestic glance at that innocent little offender. “I hope I know my poor
grandpapa’s position. Jane, indeed!"

Mr. Pocket got his hands in his hair again, and this time really did
lift himself some inches out of his chair. “Hear this!” he helplessly
exclaimed to the elements. “Babies are to be nut-crackered dead, for
people’s poor grandpapa’s positions!” Then he let himself down again,
and became silent.

We all looked awkwardly at the tablecloth while this was going on. A
pause succeeded, during which the honest and irrepressible baby made a
series of leaps and crows at little Jane, who appeared to me to be the
only member of the family (irrespective of servants) with whom it had
any decided acquaintance.

The baby was the soul of honor, and protested with all its might. It
doubled itself up the wrong way over Mrs. Pocket’s arm, exhibited a pair
of knitted shoes and dimpled ankles to the company in lieu of its soft
face, and was carried out in the highest state of mutiny. And it gained
its point after all, for I saw it through the window within a few
minutes, being nursed by little Jane.

It happened that the other five children were left behind at the
dinner-table, through Flopson’s having some private engagement, and
their not being anybody else’s business. I thus became aware of the
mutual relations between them and Mr. Pocket, which were exemplified in
the following manner. Mr. Pocket, with the normal perplexity of his face
heightened and his hair rumpled, looked at them for some minutes, as if
he couldn’t make out how they came to be boarding and lodging in that
establishment, and why they hadn’t been billeted by Nature on
somebody else. Then, in a distant Missionary way he asked them certain
questions,—as why little Joe had that hole in his frill, who said, Pa,
Flopson was going to mend it when she had time,—and how little Fanny
came by that whitlow, who said, Pa, Millers was going to poultice it
when she didn’t forget. Then, he melted into parental tenderness, and
gave them a shilling apiece and told them to go and play; and then as
they went out, with one very strong effort to lift himself up by the
hair he dismissed the hopeless subject.

In the evening there was rowing on the river. As Drummle and Startop had
each a boat, I resolved to set up mine, and to cut them both out. I was
pretty good at most exercises in which country boys are adepts, but as
I was conscious of wanting elegance of style for the Thames,—not to say
for other waters,—I at once engaged to place myself under the tuition
of the winner of a prize-wherry who plied at our stairs, and to whom I
was introduced by my new allies. This practical authority confused me
very much by saying I had the arm of a blacksmith. If he could have
known how nearly the compliment lost him his pupil, I doubt if he would
have paid it.

There was a supper-tray after we got home at night, and I think we
should all have enjoyed ourselves, but for a rather disagreeable
domestic occurrence. Mr. Pocket was in good spirits, when a housemaid
came in, and said, “If you please, sir, I should wish to speak to you."

“Speak to your master?” said Mrs. Pocket, whose dignity was roused
again. “How can you think of such a thing? Go and speak to Flopson. Or
speak to me—at some other time."

“Begging your pardon, ma'am,” returned the housemaid, “I should wish to
speak at once, and to speak to master."

Hereupon, Mr. Pocket went out of the room, and we made the best of
ourselves until he came back.

“This is a pretty thing, Belinda!” said Mr. Pocket, returning with a
countenance expressive of grief and despair. “Here’s the cook lying
insensibly drunk on the kitchen floor, with a large bundle of fresh
butter made up in the cupboard ready to sell for grease!"

“Sophia has told you,” said Mrs. Pocket. “Did I not see her with my own
eyes and hear her with my own ears, come into the room just now and ask
to speak to you?"

“But has she not taken me down stairs, Belinda,” returned Mr. Pocket,
"and shown me the woman, and the bundle too?"

“And do you defend her, Matthew,” said Mrs. Pocket, “for making
mischief?"

Mr. Pocket uttered a dismal groan.

“Am I, grandpapa’s granddaughter, to be nothing in the house?” said Mrs.
Pocket. “Besides, the cook has always been a very nice respectful woman,
and said in the most natural manner when she came to look after the
situation, that she felt I was born to be a Duchess."

There was a sofa where Mr. Pocket stood, and he dropped upon it in the
attitude of the Dying Gladiator. Still in that attitude he said, with a
hollow voice, “Good night, Mr. Pip,” when I deemed it advisable to go to
bed and leave him.